Captive Trail (The Texas Trail Series Book 2)

by Susan Page Davis

  “Uh … well, good.” Tree nodded. “I’d best be going, then.”

  Ned pointed toward the bundle. “I got a double dress length like you asked me to. It’s a dark blue …” He gazed meaningfully at Tree.

  “That’s right.” Tree nodded in Sister Natalie’s direction. “I asked him to bring some for the captive girl, so she could have a new dress too.”

  “Mrs. Stein suggested I get some plain white muslin, too,” Ned said. “For … well, whatever ladies need it for.”

  “Use it as you see best, Sister,” Tree said.

  Her smile was warmer this time. “Thank you, gentlemen. That is most gracious of you. Perhaps Quinta and Taabe can have sewing lessons together. Mr. Bright, may I take a few minutes to introduce this gentleman to our school?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would five minutes be enough?”

  “Barely, but I understand you must keep your schedule.”

  “Thanks,” Ned said. “I’ll be by again on Tuesday.” He walked outside with Tree, disappointed that he hadn’t seen Taabe or Quinta.

  They walked to Tree’s wagon and paused beside it. “It’s going to be quiet at the ranch without Quinta,” Tree said.

  The ranch was never quiet, but Ned knew what he meant. “You can come see her any time.”

  Tree grimaced. “Sister Natalie asked me to leave her alone for the full week. She’s taught at other schools, and she said some girls are homesick the first few days. If they see their parents, they’ll cry and want to go home. But after a week, they’re usually settled in and want to stay.”

  Ned pressed his lips together and nodded. He could imagine Quinta’s misery when she began missing her brothers and her favorite mustang, not to mention her father. Tree doted on her. Who would cajole and spoil her at the mission?

  “By the way,” Tree said, “you need to change teams at the ranch and keep going.”

  “Keep going?” Ned stared at him. Doing so was part of the mail contract, but so far he hadn’t needed to make extra runs.

  “Charlie Peckham’s too sick to drive. And you might have to go all the way to Fort Phantom Hill. A rider came in just before I left home—the driver on that stretch up and quit.”

  “How come?”

  Tree shrugged. “There’s talk of Indian trouble up there. You’ll have to see what they know at the swing station when you get there.”

  Ned blew out a breath. “All right. Can you pack up a clean shirt and socks for me and have supper ready when I get there?”

  “I sure can.” Tree climbed onto the seat of his wagon and touched his hat brim.

  Ned looked toward the mission door. His passenger had better hurry up. He had a long day ahead of him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Taabe helped Sister Marie in the kitchen the next morning after breakfast, while Quinta had lessons in the parlor with Sister Adele and Sister Natalie. Quinta disliked being kept indoors all morning to work on her slate and read, but the nuns had promised she would be allowed to go out each day after the noon meal.

  Taabe found she could sit on a high stool and wash dishes for Sister Marie without hurting her ankle, and she’d begun doing this each day. Sister Marie seemed happy for her help. She chattered away or hummed lilting melodies while she cooked. Sometimes Taabe understood what she said. Sometimes Sister Marie seemed to launch into another language. She would say something, shake her head, then repeat the words slowly in English.

  Sometimes she would give Taabe a knife and a pile of vegetables to peel or chop. Within a few days, Taabe understood how she wanted most of them prepared, and Sister Marie would smile at her and say, “Bon.” Then came the head shaking, and “Good. It is good.”

  Late in the morning, Sister Adele came to the kitchen. Taabe climbed down from her stool and took off her apron. It was one of the sisters’ prayer times. She was accustomed now to being summoned each morning and evening to join them in the chapel. For a few minutes the sisters all knelt and prayed. Taabe usually sat quietly until they finished. If they sang one of their songs, she hummed along.

  Since Quinta had come yesterday, the girl joined them as well, and Taabe watched her.

  Today they entered the chapel and sat down, with Sister Adele between Quinta and Taabe. Quinta smiled faintly at Taabe, as though she wasn’t sure she wanted to be here. Taabe understood. At first she’d felt bewildered. Now she found this time peaceful.

  The other sisters knelt between the benches. Quietly, they all began to pray.

  Sister Adele said something to Quinta. The girl clasped her hands, closed her eyes, and rattled off a long string of words.

  Sister Adele said nothing until she had finished, but when Quinta had uttered her “amen” and opened her eyes, the nun touched her arm.

  “English,” Sister Adele said softly.

  Quinta scowled at her.

  “You and Taabe must both learn your prayers in English.”

  So Quinta also spoke another tongue. But it was not the language of the Numinu.

  Sister Adele looked at Taabe and held up her clasped hands. Taabe folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.

  “Our Father,” Sister Adele said.

  Taabe repeated the words. After a moment, Quinta also said, “Our Father.”

  They continued through the prayer, which was not long. At the “amen,” Taabe opened her eyes and looked to Sister Adele.

  The sister nodded and smiled at her, then at Quinta. Taabe sat quietly for the next few minutes, eyes on her hands, while the nuns continued to pray, each in her own place. Taabe knew that if she looked past Sister Adele’s kneeling form to Quinta, the girl would smile at her and make humorous faces, which would cause her to laugh. It was dangerous to look at Quinta during the morning and evening prayer times.

  A few minutes later, Sister Natalie rose, and the other sisters rose too. They all made the odd motions, touching their foreheads and chests. Taabe now realized, thanks to Sister Adele’s tutelage, that they were pretending to draw a cross—the torture rack. It seemed to be a symbol of their faith and commitment to their God. This was something Taabe could not remember ever seeing. But then, she was sure she’d never known anyone quite like the sisters in her old life.

  Her people—her white family—prayed. She felt certain of that. But the rest of it? She wasn’t sure.

  After Sister Natalie and the other two nuns walked silently out of the chapel, Sister Adele led her and Quinta into the hall. She turned to them with a smile.

  “Now we will sew.”

  Quinta scowled.

  Taabe looked to Sister Adele for an explanation. “What is …?”

  “Sewing.” Sister Adele made a stabbing motion with her fingers then a pulling motion. Taabe didn’t understand. The nun lifted a fold of Taabe’s skirt and made the gestures again, as though poking something into the fabric, then pulling it out.

  “Ah!” Taabe smiled. This she knew. They would stitch. Would they be mending the sisters’ clothing? Or making something new?

  Sister Adele took them to the parlor, where they entertained guests. On a table, she spread out a long piece of dark blue cloth.

  “Dresses.” She pointed at each of them in turn. “For Quinta. For Taabe. Dresses. New dresses.”

  Taabe grasped her meaning with joy. She and Quinta would make new dresses for themselves. She looked at Quinta, smiling. “Dress.”

  Quinta hung her head, still frowning. “I don’t want a new dress. I hate dresses.”

  Taabe blinked and looked at Sister Adele. She wasn’t sure what “hate” meant—it was not a word the nuns had tried to teach her. But Quinta’s feelings about the new dress were clear.

  “And I hate to sew,” she said.

  Sister Adele patted Quinta’s shoulder and spoke rapidly and softly. She pointed to the hem of the dress Quinta wore, which fell halfway between her ankles and her knees.

  Quinta sighed, folded her arms, and scowled. Taabe stared at her. Quinta was far too big to pout. The Numinu would send her ou
tside the camp for that.

  She reached out to touch the blue fabric. It felt soft. She could hardly wait to wear it. Sister Adele had been teaching her color words, and she said softly, “Blue.”

  “Yes,” the sister said with delight. “Blue cloth.”

  Taabe looked at Quinta. Slowly, she said, “Quinta, dress. Taabe, dress. Blue.”

  Quinta looked at her, emotions warring in her expression. “Yes. We’ll have dresses alike. I’d rather have my overalls.”

  An idea came to Taabe. She grabbed Sister Adele’s hand and said, “Wait,” in Comanche, because she couldn’t remember the English word. She turned and hobbled as quickly as she could to her room, swinging along on her crutches.

  Her parfleche lay as always on her bed, against the adobe wall. Taabe opened it and took out the little deerskin pouch. She carried it back to the parlor and laid it on the fabric.

  “What’s this?” Sister Adele asked.

  Taabe opened the pouch and spilled a few of the colored glass beads on the cloth. Against the deep blue material, the red, yellow, white, and black beads glistened. She spoke the Comanche word for them.

  “Ah,” Sister Adele said. “Beads.”

  “Beads,” Taabe said. She looked at Quinta.

  The girl showed some interest. “Beads for our dresses?”

  “Yes,” Taabe said and grinned at Quinta. “Dresses. Beads. Pretty.”

  All of them laughed.

  Sister Adele said, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t add a few beads to your dresses, though I’ll have to make sure Sister Natalie doesn’t mind. I hope she won’t think they’re heathenish. Taabe, perhaps you can teach us how to do the beadwork.”

  Taabe frowned, trying to follow the rapid words. Quinta touched her sleeve, and Taabe turned to her. “You,” Quinta said, pointing to Taabe. “You. Teach. Sewing. Beads.”

  Taabe smiled. She could do that. She could show Quinta and Sister Adele how to stitch the little rounds of color into a pattern at the cuffs and collars, just the way Pia’s mother had taught her. Remembering those long afternoons spent at beadwork when she was a girl brought tears to her eyes. Those quiet times had calmed her, soothed her. The Indian woman’s patient instruction had helped her not to fret about her real mother and the rest of the family she had lost.

  “Yes,” she said. “I teach. Beads.”

  The stagecoach rolled past the ruins of Fort Phantom Hill to the house that served as a temporary way station for the Overland line. They arrived well after dark, and Ned had been driving a good fourteen hours. He didn’t like driving at night, but at least he was familiar with the road from freighting days. He’d dropped Brownie at an earlier stop where he’d changed teams. Brownie got to hitch a ride home while he went on.

  Beside Ned rode Henry Loudon, half Kiowa and known as a sharpshooter. Henry lived west of Phantom Hill and made no secret that he felt lucky to have secured a paying job as a shotgun rider for the mail stage.

  “Too bad they put all that effort into building this place,” Ned said as they rattled past the old powder magazine and commissary. Along with a stone guardhouse and several stark chimneys pointing skyward, they were all that remained of the fort.

  “Yeah, and too bad it burned,” Henry said. The fort had been used for only four or five years, and was abandoned in 1854. “Butterfield’s going to have some repairs done, so we can have a comfortable home station here. At least that’s what the division agent said when he came through.”

  “That right?” It would be an improvement and a boon to passengers, though the shortage of good water that had forced the army to abandon the post would likely be a problem for the stage line as well. A handful of houses stood near the old fort. Ned couldn’t call it a town, though it did have a trading post and a saloon.

  The station agent met them and assured Ned that his run was over. “You can get some sleep and head back in the morning.”

  “Great,” Ned said. He and Henry went into the house and ate supper, after which Henry prepared to leave for the night.

  “Watch yourself on your way home,” the agent said as Henry reached the door. “We heard there was some Indian trouble up the line.”

  Henry grunted and left.

  “Would they bother him?” Ned asked.

  “Comanche would. They don’t care who they raid.”

  “Say, do you know anyone who speaks the Comanche lingo? I asked Henry, but he said he doesn’t speak it well, and he wouldn’t want to go all the way to Fort Chadbourne. Too far from his ranch.”

  The station agent scratched his head. “You might try over to the saloon. There’s a buffalo hunter hangs around there when he’s in these parts. Isaac Trainer. He claims he spent a winter with them.”

  Ned pulled on his leather gloves and turned up his coat collar against the chilly November night.

  His mother back in Alabama would weep if she knew he was headed for the sordid little shanty of a saloon. But she need never know. Even so, Ned silently renewed the promise he’d made her five years ago, when he left the family farm, that he wouldn’t do anything that would shame her and his pa.

  He missed the family, but with seven siblings, he’d felt the cramped walls of the farmhouse and longed to get out on his own, to try his hand at something other than dirt farming. In Texas he’d found opportunity. Patrillo Garza had taken him on to help with his new freighting business, and the growing family had made Ned feel at home—though he had his own room at the ranch house. He’d worked hard. Patrillo liked him and his penchant for figures, which had helped them save a lot of money. By the time the mail contract came along, they were full partners in the business.

  He wondered how Quinta was doing at the mission. Was she homesick and bawling her eyes out? More likely she was up to mischief. She’d be good for Taabe—a distraction from the uncertainties that must plague her.

  Thoughts of the beautiful young woman hastened his steps. More than anything, he longed to know her full story—how long she had been with the Indians, if she had escaped on her own, and how she had survived.

  And was she safe now? The scattered rumors of Indian unrest bothered Ned, but there was nothing he could do to ensure that the nuns and their guests wouldn’t be harmed. He paused outside the saloon and looked up at the star-filled sky.

  “Lord, You know my intentions of going in here, so I figure You’ll overlook it.” He shoved aside the twinges of conscience and pushed the saloon door open.

  Inside, the air was hazy with smoke. He succeeded in holding back a cough as he searched the small room. A black-haired woman of indeterminate age tended the bar, and three men stood before it. Two more sat at a rickety table with glasses at hand, playing cards. Ned looked the five men over and decided one of the card players was the most likely candidate for a buffalo hunter.

  He sauntered toward the table, staying aware of the other people around him. The woman at the bar watched him from beneath lowered lashes.

  “You Trainer?” he asked the older of the two card players.

  The graying man looked up at him. “Nope.”

  “I’m looking for Isaac Trainer. Do you know him?”

  “Yup.”

  Ned tried not to let his frustration show.

  “Whatcha want him for?” asked the man’s companion, who looked a bit younger but also had a tanned, creased face. His dark beard blended in with his shaggy hair near his ears, and he kept his dark brown eyes riveted on his cards.

  “I need someone who can translate for me,” Ned said. “I heard he speaks Comanche.”

  “He does. Whatcha payin’?”

  Ned eyed him cautiously. “Are you Trainer?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ned pulled out a chair and sat down. “Listen, mister, I don’t want to broadcast this, but the army’s got a returned captive. They want someone who can speak the lingo to question this person and see what they can find out.”

  For the first time, the man looked directly at him. “Where’s this captive at?
”

  Ned hesitated. “Not here. It would involve a few days’ travel, but I can get you a pass on the Overland stage if that would help. If you’re Trainer, that is.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What else?”

  “We’d pay your expenses and send you back here after.”

  “And?”

  Ned swallowed hard. “Ten dollars.”

  “Hard money?”

  “Dollars.”

  “American or Mexican?”

  Ned’s patience had reached its limit. “American paper money. Take it or leave it.”